


My Disease, My Infection

by caffeinechesters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 05:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21010640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeinechesters/pseuds/caffeinechesters
Summary: Belphegor knew Dean was gorgeous and he was fan.





	My Disease, My Infection

**Author's Note:**

> This plot bunny/fic idea came to one day and wouldn't leave me be. I accept that this is who I am as a person. Title is from "Reptile" by Nine Inch Nails.

Dean is a weak man for pretty, young things. It’s even better when they bleed so pretty well. He’s not sure what caused him to turn and twist from just wanting to having a fun fuck and pleasure his partner to wanting to control them and make them hurt so good. A part of him thinks Alastair was right about a part of him still left in the pit; another side chimes in about being in purgatory made him rough with a hair-line trigger, and a smaller side reminds him of the mark of Cain, being a demon, and being Michael’s puppet. Dean doesn’t dwell it much.

It’s just after Chuck left this Earth to its one devices, Jack being killed, and a demon named Belaphegor took over his surrogate son’s body, he feels the dark undercurrent deep inside of him well up to the surface. Dean gets chills when Belphegor tells him that his work in the pit was not torture but art. He remembers skinning and fileting souls, stuffing their body cavities with brimstone and pitcher plants, all while cooing about how they deserve it. That comment worms its way under his skin. It gets worse when Belphegor tells him of his past and that he is gorgeous. He hates that he wants nothing more than to tear into him and show him all that he’s learned since.

When they get back to the bunker, it’s both better and worse. He has the space to avoid him. He doesn’t always have Sam or Cas there to distract Belphegor or stop him from fantasizing about showing the demon just better he has gotten at torture. He’s lost count at how many times he’s come thinking about the ways he’d torture Belphegor and make him scream. His number one go-to for a quick release was in the dungeon, restrained, bloody, and choking on his cock. Dean hates the guilt he feels after he comes; it’s Jack’s body he getting off on torturing. The person he hated at first but grew on him enough to consider a son. It doesn’t help that afterwards, in his cloud of guilt, Belphegor always finds him; he seems to sense it.

Finally, after weeks of this push-pull, hatred and lust, and somewhat complacency, Belphegor catches him with come-slick hands and bloody lip. He’s nothing but smiles and tells him that he breathtakingly gorgeous as he dropped to his knees, licking come off Dean’s hand and cock. Dean knows he should push him away. It’s Jack’s body, but Jack isn’t there right now. But feeling Belphegor’s mouth and tongue lick and suck him clean makes him wish he could get it up again like when he was a teenager. Instead, when Belphegor works him to the point of oversensitivity, he grabs him by the neck and squeezes until he feels him gagging and bruised. He pushes Belphegor off, leaving him as a pile on the floor of his bedroom like a whore. He tries not to look at his burned out eyes when his sunglasses clatter away.

It’s less than a day when Belphegor is waiting for him in the dungeon, willing catching himself in the trap. Dean was going into the archives to check for something Belphegor mentioned for a spell when he noticed the hidden door cracked. There is Belphegor is lounging in a chair, cat that ate the canary smile, with the demon handcuffs and tools on the table. Dean feels sick and weak and wants it so much he can feel his not-son’s blood running down his arms and face and dick.

“C’mon, Dean. You know I find you gorgeous. I know you feel conflicted because of the meatsuit. But he’s not coming back. It’s just me in here. Show me all the new tricks you’ve learned since Alastair.”

Dean hesitates. Sam and Cas are both out checking on the town full of ghosts to make sure it’s holding up; they should be gone for at least a couple of hours. He could indulge in whatever Belphegor is offering. He should deny this. He shouldn’t let this hell fanboy, groupie, whatever words find root in him. Instead, he slowly stalks forward to the dungeon.

“You think you can handle me, boy?”

“Why don’t we see?”

It should start slow. Alastair told him that. Let the anticipation and fear build. He begins by handcuffing Belphegor who acts like he’s receiving penance or communion with wrists raised. Dean strips and rips the clothes he remembers Sam and him buying with Jack at the Walmart. Belphegor smiles at him like Jack when he was told that he did a good job on the hunt. When Dean selects a knife from the table, a khanjar, he hears Belphegor breath quicken, excited. The moan he makes when Dean gently picks up a foot and severs an Achilles tendon makes a part of wish he never left the pit as the blood slowly pools in his hands. He looks at him, bitten lips and Jack’s, not Jack’s, dick starting to fill.

Dean works him over, including severing his vocal chords so he doesn’t have to hear Jack’s voice, until he’s fully hard and leaking. It became easier when he stop viewing Belphegor as Jack when he took off those sunglasses: the burnt out eyes and nothing but charred bones inside makes it more real that this isn’t Jack but some demon, something deserving punished. He looks at Belphegor, legs cracked open wide, his hole bloody and prolapsed thanks to a thick pommel of a dagger and his fist without lube, and wrists behind his back. His dick is smeared with blood much like Belphegor’s, but his isn’t a split open gape from where he fingered fucked the opening until he tore. Dean is running out of time and so hard it hurts; he wishes he had an eternity to do this. He’s wishing for a lot of things right now that made torturing in Hell different than up here. Those burned out sockets watch him as he falters in his work over.

“Get up,” Dean commands.

Belphegor tries. Sinew moves freely without the confines of skin Dean realizes and the cut Achilles tendons make him go to his knees the moment he tries to stand. Belphegor looks euphoric, looking up. Dean grabs his hair with one hand as he unzips his jeans and pulls out his dick without the other. He pulls Belphegor to his dick and his mouth opens.

“No, I’m not gonna use that pretty mouth or throat… I want something a little tighter around my dick and that throat will never be tight again after the pear of anguish.”

He jacks off with his bloody hand and positions his dick next to Belphegor’s eye. Belphegor trembles, out of excitement or whatever else a demon can feel, Dean doesn’t care as he shoves in. It’s hard and tight and when he pulls out he can see ash of burned bone and viscera. He wants to go slow, he wants to savor because he might never get this again, but all he can do it just thrust in harder and faster until both of his hands are holding Belphegor’s head and getting harder at the small gurgles coming from severed vocal chords. It’s frantic and frenetic and freeing to be unbound after so long.

Dean is so lost in the pleasure of it all he doesn’t hear Sam and Cas calling for him. He comes hard inside of Belphegor, coming down from the best sex he’s had as he pulls out, and lets go of Belphegor to drop in a bloody mess. He hears a gasp and the sound of books dropping to the floor.

“Shit,” is the only thing that comes to his mind.


End file.
